The Swaying Cattail

Ron Koppelberger

The Swaying Cattail

In the spirit of shadow, of gentle twilight passions and desires in velveteen darkness, he studied the cattail down, in perfect pose, still by the source of wonder. He knelt on bended knees amongst the castaway leaves of fall, near the ponds edge. A great grin of possession, the cattail was his, like the firefly light that flittered and swam before him, a legend in myth, a miracle in the alter of astonishing dreams, the cattail swayed before him, tufted and pregnant near the tip. He layed his hands together in prayer, in benedictions grace,

“ Careful violet,

My sweet violet,

Can you speak

Of heaven and the

Dreams of paupers,

Can you allay

The fears of an old

Man my love,

My desire in spring

And my passion in

Fall seasons of

Chance, what in

Cattail down and musty

Earth, what secret do you own,

What belongs to the heart

Of desire and eternal rest,

What seeks your advice from

Scarlet beaded tears unto the

Watery asylum of forever and a

Breath, the watery asylum in clear

Glossy eyes and milky hued skin,

What lay before the temple of

The cattail my sweet violet, my

Love and bond of tomorrow unto

The breech of yesterdays deed,

Yesterdays sin, a sin in

Sleeping demons of drink and angry

Drama, what sin hath a bottle bred?”

He whispered reverently to the wind, to the blood sodden soils and the cattail swaying in white cotton and the single drop of blood. “ What sin?”
He whispered again as he closed his wife’s eyes with pennies from his heart.